Boring, part 45,629

A month or two ago I started thinking maybe I should write a book. But, like, for real. And one of the things that's happened since then is that I take note of all the books I hear about and see, which is something I've always done, but now I'm doing it in a more thoughtful way.

Also, due to the tone that seems to be characterizing my 34th year, I do it in a very cocky way.

Like when I heard a radio piece recently about this woman who quit her job to spend a year on an oyster farm and then wrote a book about it, and I was all, "Ok. I could totally do that." Or when I bought J this gardening book yesterday, that essentially lists different types of herbs and vegetables and how to grow them, each page dedicated to a different plant, which is actually super helpful but also really simple and I said, "Nice format. I could do this kind of thing." Or whenever I think about this guy, for instance, all I can think is, "Come on, I could write a book in my SLEEP."

It's all talk, of course and, more importantly, not helpful, since the plain truth is that I haven't written any book. Kinda like how when people talk about that really abstract modern art featuring squares or circles or what have you, saying, "I don't get it, I could do that!" and J - who loves that stuff - replies, "Yeah, but you didn't."

Beyond some actual brainstorming and a few tiny steps I've taken in the right direction (I hope) my book fascination has pervaded my life in many amusing ways.

This morning while feeding Gabe breakfast I got a sudden urge to clean out the freezer, which we've been meaning to do for awhile but when it comes right down to it that's a task that usually ends up on the "not that fun" list, and thus, not completed. Sometimes though, you catch a bit of inspiration and you've got nothing big to do with your energy, so the freezer gets the benefit.

And as I was down on my hands and knees, removing old bags of hot dog buns that, sadly, are probably never to taste good again, and wiping down the surfaces, I thought about how I'd later tell J all about how I'd gotten the freezer done that morning! And how he'd probably tell me that he'd split some molecules for cold fusion, then pipetted a glucose solution and examined microbes related to pandemic fever germs. That's the kind of thing that scientists say.

So I decided maybe I wouldn't, for once, tell him about the rather mundane thing I'd done that day, then wondered what the hell I'd do with all the creativity I save for communicating the minutiae that is sometimes my daily existence. Who will I tell when I revise the laundry system? I've got things to share.

Wait a second! I thought. I've got it. I'll tell the entire world. I could totally write a book about that.